Just for a ‘laff.

Seeing as nobody is interested in investment stuff over Christmas, I whacked something else up last night for this week’s column. I wonder if Patrick will actually print it.

 

‘Twas the night before bonus, when everyone earns,

Not a broker was stirring, not even interns.

The appraisals were looked at by HR with care,

In hopes that good margins so soon would be there.

 

The funds were nestled all snug in their Wraps

While visions of alpha just danc’d in their laps,

The GM in his best suit, and I in my gauze

Had settled our brains for a long summer’s pause

 

When out on the market arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the desk to see what was the matter.

Away to the screen, I flew like a flash,

Tore open my login, and threw up some cash.

 

The Dow on the breast of the newly plunged Yuan,

Gave luster of mid-day to another Black Swan.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature Fed and some tiny reindeer,

 

With a new certain driver, so lively and proud

I knew in a moment it must be St. Loud

More rapid than eagles his policies came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:

 

“Now Healthcare! Now Migrants! Now Taxes! Now Jobs!  

“On Coalmines! On Families! Get working you slobs!

“To the top of the bill! To the top of the wall!

“Now whack away! Bash away! Slash away all!”

 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up into Congress the statutes they flew,

With a sleigh full of gauche, and St. Mania too

 

And then in a twinkling, I heard on Bloomberg

The prancing and pawing of each little word

As I drew in myself, and was turning around,

Down Wall Street St. Obvious came with a bound

 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had lots more to dread.

He spoke way too much, but went straight to his work,

And fill’d in the Treasury; then turn’d with a jerk,

 

He sprung to his throne, to his team gave a holler,

And away they all flew, beck and call of a dollar

But I heard him exclaim, ere he whizzed out of sight‍,

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good FRIGHT!

 

Life in the grupetto: Nearly a pile-up AND an almost high-speed crash!

Saturday: Ramblers: Last Race In Spring Series.

When you are in F grade, you are always in the grupetto, for you are slow. Slow like a wet week, a draggy boyfriend, doing a second year university calculus exam with a hangover. But the good news is that fun stuff happens in this autobus. It makes cycle life very exciting. First, I nearly die in a pile up on the Waiohiki Bridge. The lead bunch slows and narrows to cross. In the grupetto this has a slingshot effect. Everyone rams on their brakes and shouts F______!!! as rear wheels lock and scrape themselves against asphalt. Riders go sideways. I clench my teeth like I did once, way back, when “rally” driving a WRX and getting it wrong, connecting with a bank in a way that WRX’s are not supposed to do. I prepare to be at the bottom of a bike scrum. Magically, it doesn’t happen. We all restart, but valuable catecholamines have escaped the adrenals – the ones you were saving for the last bits of the race, and the big peloton now has a huge gap advantage. It does not matter, however, because you cannot match them anyway. SO THERE SAYS PIERRE! I attach myself optimistically to a group of E graders, and hang on. It is hot as hell out and long white salt streaks begin to appear on my tights as I dehydrate and suffer, and suffer again, keeping up.

At the top of the tallest downhill I have a small lead on the E’s. I fly over the crest, feeling good, and go for it. I hit the bottom bend doing 60km/h. I have my curve sighted out and though utterly terrified, I stick to it. It is lucky I do HOLD MY GODDAMNED LINE because the larger boys, who have 30kg on me, come flying past right on the apex, doing 65 or 70, inches from my bars and all over the road. HOLY HELL! I lose another 5 years worth of epinephrine.

We get to the flats. Now the 10km push for home. I tag onto Noel’s wheel. He’s doing 40km/h. I’m out of water and guzzled the last wine gum 3km back. I can’t hold onto him. I drop just before SH50 and share the remaining work with a mystery dude. As he is a visitor I let him win the sprint and feel VERY magnanimous as I do this.

56km of sweat and hurt is now done. I get myself home and lie on the floor, the slow cyclist, like a tortoise.

Today: Monday

I go to Pedal Power Taradale and buy carbon race wheels which cost more than my bike.

 

Mass start Pettigrew Green Arena

Race face, obviously.

Sunday recovery spinning in Puketapu.

Sunday art.

Wine auctioning.

Review

On Saturday we went to a wine auction. Wine auctions in Hawke’s Bay are very fun, because you know everyone there, (all the Ra Ra’s). It strikes you that YOU are also possibly a Ra Ra and you think, OH WELL! I zip myself firmly into a sensational dress and get on board some five-inch stilettos, specifically designed to get attention, and it works. WHAT A FUN GAME! The younger, male winemakers confirm back to me what I wish to know. I have won! It is a strangely fleeting, and empty, feeling. But there is NO TIME for that introspection crap as there is WINE to be sampled, NIBBLES to be eaten (or not in my case, the dress does not permit intake of food) and OTHER PEOPLE’S WIVES that you must compliment in the positive, whether you like them or not, for this is also part of the game.

I see lots of super cool people and all my jokes go down well, but it is about a hundred degrees in the marquee and a tiny speckle of underboob sweat starts to threaten the outfit. I move outside and see one of my old hunting buddies. I ask him nicely first but then rip a page out of his catalogue and attempt to fan the offending area of skintight couture without drawing undue notice. It doesn’t work and at this point the Prime Minister shakes my hand and people snap photos and I think DAMN! I am gonna to look SHINY AF (!!!) in those ones! Sigh!

BUT! There is no time for worrying about dripping over politicians for there is the ACTUAL wine auction to do!

At the halfway point I get bored and consider the process so far not charismatic enough. I ask Neil if I can borrow his paddle. I bid strategically on items I do not wish to purchase, acting the lure, giving the dollars a tune up, helping the cause, Doing My Bit. Caroline Ritchie knows how to add value. On the items I DO wish to purchase my hand flies through the air like a demon on a broomstick. Craig goes pale when I get up to $8,000 on some Syrah and he tries to tame the tigress. “Don’t be bloody ridiculous!” I hiss back. Then I feel a teensy bit guilty, so I hit on a genius idea to keep me in the running. I turn around to the table and say, softly, (but in real life it’s a muffled shout), “Let’s all go in on a SYNDICATE, OK??” And the table, thoroughly enjoying my incredible amateur dramatics, agrees with much Hurrah-ing and Whoop-ing and Fun-Times-Over-Here-ing expressions.

Afterwards, bikkies all spent and feet aflame from standing around like trophy girlfriends for five hours, we hop in a cab. Because, apparently, we haven’t had NEARLY ENOUGH EXCITEMENT, we trundle back to Monica Loves until late. Val de reeeeeee, val de raaaaaaa!  (Ra).

Today

I go cycling in brilliant sunshine and take vanity shots of myself. A thunderstorm then hits me at Puketapu, most likely prophetically, lashing me until I am soaked to my innermost bikester socks, and the temperature drops to 11c. I have to text Brena for an emergency pickup otherwise I will become hypothermic. I have an excellent lunchtime stabilising my core temperature in the bath. They don’t call me The Princess for nothing.

Red carpet poseurs.

Wine auction BFF’s.

While you wait for a cab it’s good to practice wall-yoga.

Whooshing with my new helmet.

Back to reality…but it’s a pretty good one.

Landing at Auckland yesterday evening, the arrival hall is quiet. It is crammed with people, don’t get me wrong, someone had the fancy idea to land three A380’s at the same time, but it’s hushed. We are all looking at our phones. The NZX50 has closed down 4 percent (largest one-day drop since 2008) and the circuit breakers have just been triggered on the US futures market, at 5% down, and trading is halted. Trump has been announced President-Elect. As I shuffle to declare the two bottles of Sriracha sauce I bought in Wal Mart, (take inner left lane only all other lanes crap and slow), I think, oh GOD, not again.

I have a sleepless night. I’m trip over-tired and the election result isn’t what I expected. But neither can I say I am totally surprised. I wake up to a 1000 point swing in the Dow – from intraday lows to new all-time highs, the exact opposite of what all the talking head experts were SO CONFIDENT would happen. What in sweet tap dancing hell is going on?

I decide that this is better than an another enormous plunge, but sharemarkets that behave with such bulimic vacillations aren’t good for us, (or me personally quite frankly) and I worry about what we are in for. Not the first few days, but after 12 months or two years. I worry about race riots, for the women already assaulted under the banner of Trump’s tacit agreement. Whether or not he backs down to moderation after the hate performance of his life just to win a contest might not make any difference. Something festering has been ripped open in America with his campaigning belligerence, and it is ugly.

But fretting is one of my bad habits, and I know from experience it makes me sad and depressed, so I allow myself a good hour of wallowing about how the whole damned world is screwed beyond all rational thought, and then I get on with the day.

And it’s a good day in small town Napier, New Zealand, consisting of lunching on plants, sending off of invoices and choosing of dresses for wine auction events, where I shall play entertainer-ess. I consider myself insanity level lucky. Each gal makes her own fortune, of course, the multiverse won’t have it any other way, but I do feel hugely grateful all the same.

 

 

Last day! Morning activities.

Pre-breakfast jogging has descended into walking with much huffing and puffing. I call reason on the heat, and absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with staying up late every night and having a GOOD TIME. I play a game called “Get Lost” and saunter through the streets at random. I then like to bring up the GPS points on my Garmin to see where I am and also as a practice exercise in case I am ever disoriented and injured on the South Col of Everest, or Marine Parade Napier, and have to call myself a rescue helicopter. Imagine the humiliation of wearing a device on your wrist which has more computing power than the Space Shuttle and not being able to tell the operator your co-ordinates! Oh the laughter as they winch you in, tut-tutting and sighing that such devices are wasted on idiots like me!

I follow the river which leads directly to Diamond Head, but it’s a boring route and there is a bum on every park bench. Some of them mumble at me and reach out as I pass. I find it unnerving and dip back onto the main drag where the cool aircon blasts out from each boutique and gives you a frothed icy massage as you meander by. I spot the world’s largest, most perfect sunhat in one such establishment, which is closed, but I bang on the window and make Tourist Packing Cash signs to the man unloading stock at the back and he opens up for me. I buy the hat instantly, and it will replace the other world’s largest, most perfect sunhat that I left in Australia, or Koru, or someone’s house, or a restaurant, or trekking to the North Pole, or…..HUSH CARRIE, HUSH.

Now the whole tribe of us are off on a walk to Nordstrom Rack, which is where the poor old clothing items from Nordstrom in the reals go when they are more than 30 microseconds old and therefore uncool to Americans. They are, OBVIOUSLY, fantastic for us. If I do not return, because the credit card agencies have put me in a straightjacket and called my mother, for God’s sake stop my Strava and tell Sean Connery I still fancy him.

 

Turtle lurve.

Well, we finally luck in with this turtle spotting bizzo. Craig has spied a thing where you go out on a catamaran and they give you little snacks and drinks. And you see turtles. After previous attempts which have frankly been a mistake, I have seriously low expectations.

The whole thing is incredible. We take the earliest time possible, our driver tells us that there are only 6 on the boat and this is the only cruise of the day. I cannot believe they are going to run it, (they most usually take 40), and I say this to the captain. He says they can’t believe they are doing it either, but he does it in that nice fashion for tourists, so we do not feel too bad about dragging him away from his potential day off where he would have otherwise been surfing and jumping off waterfalls and slurping at all day happy hours.

The water is crystalline clear and we disembark (well some of us jump in like banshees with a snorkel attached but whatever). Instantly we see turtles, so close. They come here for the such-and-such fish to clean algae off their shells. Most are just basking, checking in for this aquatic beauty treatment, but I spot the odd one sleeping on the bottom and a couple of frisky ones busy creating the next green sea turtle lineage. We see about six in total. One in particular looks totally crapped out. Our water guide says he’s over a hundred years old. They can live to be 150, which I find pretty cool.

It is completely perfect. We sail back to the harbour and I have the biggest grin on my face.

Fun in the blue.

Three (thousand) Little Fishies.

Coming up for air.

Way on down.

Towards the sun.

Extra crispy fried.

I take back everything I said about being able to lounge around outside for hours. It is hot as f— on the beach and despite a tranquil ocean swim to cool off I quickly wind up living the nearly-sunstroked dream. I totter back to the room for emergency cooling manoeuvres.

After a highly nutritious lunch of salt and vinegar crisps and diet 7Up we stroke forth back into the searing hothouse and make a walking dash for the Ala Moana Centre. It’s Saturday and this is consumer central on steroids. I put on my stern ultra-shopper face and dive into Nordstrom, Bloomingdales, Sephora, Longs, (volumiser hair products and caffeine SO CHEAP YOU GUYS!), Tesla, Victorias Secret, Macys. I score a Ted Baker dress which is going to blow Hawke’s Bay’s mind and scare Craig at Herve Leger, wrapping myself into a $3000 creation. It does not fit, DRAT!

Tomorrow, we turtle. 

Holiday mode morning.

AM.

Slightly weary this a.m. The whole gang went to Chang’s last night and ordered about a thousand things. I tried to get away with broccoli and tofu but they were having none of it, so I gave in and snaffled all sorts of vege stuff. And what is a holiday without EATING YOURSELF HALF TO DEATH? Rotund, we waddle back to the hotel and have a little party in my room. I am an amazing hostess, offering Hersheys milk chocolate drops in a bowl as dessert! Genius! Then, utterly inspired, I whip out some Reece’s Pieces. What a riot! We all go to bed groaning with caloric surplus.

I wake up to discover that walking the 5km to and from the restaurant in heels has shredded my ankle tendons, or something, and going for a jog feels distinctly crap. I paddle about anyway, to burn off dinner, in Ala Moana Park. Every 30 meters there is a homeless person. We do not see this at home, in our white bread cookie cutter existence, and it’s always a bit of a shock. I shoot my beachy run pic and skip back to the hotel, enclave of a different world.

Then we have the doing of laundry, booking of turtle sighting tour, and watching of All Blacks. This puts everybody in a bad mood. I sit in the aircon, calming my central nervous system for the afternoon assault on beach, pool and that death on a stick for credit cards, the Ala Moana Centre. Nordstrom, I’m coming baby…

 

 

In situ Waikiki

YESTERDAY

Got off the plane dizzy. Something about Air NZ waking you up at 3am to give you breakfast. Lurch into the room. Have a power nap. Then 1 litre of coffee, five vitamin C tablets and I GET MY ASS TO THE POOL. The flight has given me elephant ankles, and I do not wish any of our party to sight them (complete strangers are totally fine though and in fact I ask some of them to take this featuring photo) so I skulk off to the watery retreat on Level 2 and commence getting stuck in. Everyone else goes walking.

Total heaven by the pool. Waikiki in autumn is golden and hot, but the searing heat that braises you like a pork chop on a grill has left for the southern hemisphere and you can lie out here for hours. This particular aqua-fabulous is only 1 foot 8 inches deep. Nice! When my fat feet get too crispy I take them for a circuit in this adult paddling pen, the precious new bikini never having to get submerged.

I send enticing messages back home from the lounger, mostly because I’m a bitch, and get the usual longing replies. Excellent!

The tireds show up early so we loaf on over to John’s room for aperitifs and the never-ending CNN commentary on the election. It’s riveting, being in the US right now. The undercurrent of “revenge-voting” is so scary. “Imma vote for Trump cos I f—g hate Hillary!” I get quite aghast at it. It’s like People Of Wal Mart, but in a far more serious and sinister way. Bill the big boy Clinton gets wheeled out all over the place and even I have to admit, he’s still got it.

 

TODAY

Wake up raring to go. Swallow as much filter coffee as I can hold from the enormous machine on the bench, which is also of considerable acreage. Coffee disgusting, will never sample again, make note to get coffee delivered to room from gorgeous little place downstairs from now on. We are staying a bit north of the Waikiki retail epicenter and I like it. The room is huge, you get so much more for the dollar even just 500m away from that black hole of plastic gaucheness.

I go jogging along the beachfront and find the PERFECT water fountain on which to perch my phone to snap the vanity run shot. It’s 24c at 7am,  I’m sweaty and slow, but getting everything flowing and endorphinated feels wonderful out here.

And I need to feel good because I have agreed to go to Waikele, outlet store hideousness, with Craig, Jackie & John. The place is so depressing, but the others seem to love it. I hate it. I purchase a silk dress in Boss to cheer myself up and stop the “Buy something for YOU” nagging. I then manage to get into a US Size 2 in another dress, which I do not ring up, because it is $1400, and this makes me weirdly elated. I have a little moment where I feel high. Anyway, I corporate-wife my way through the rest of it, getting Lano kitted out and sufficiently clothes-sated so that we can get back on the bloody bus of perma-tourists and bugger off out of here!

Golden run.

TRIP DAY! Aloha, again.​

This is my sixth excursion overseas this year – which is to say, I am doing rather well for a part-timer. But it is the life I envisage, and so, thank you multiverse, it becomes just that. I’m deep into Claude Bristol. He’s right, of course. I also keep having startlingly clear images of things further down the track. They are completely incredible, but so outrageous I keep them to myself and get on with LIFE RIGHT NOW, which is pretty sweet.

I love the trip-antsy. I race to Trish and she coats me in bronze. I get it EXTRA DARK today. I’m going to America in a general election week in FALL and I wish to look local. I pose and get a photo taken straight after (VANITY!) because the paintwork never looks as nice once you drive out of the showroom. I look good. Or do I? Apart from this, or that, and maybe a roll here and there can SOD OFF and perhaps if I just ate NOT A LOT for a few days and……OH GOD WHO KNOWS!

I flip off this time wasting brain-crap and get back to work, which for a few hours is actual work, then return to the serious task of Trip Stuff! But it only takes me 38.5 minutes to pack completely and do all the blah blah calls regarding the hailing of taxis and the holiday-stopping of newspapers and so I sit and wait, with hair rolled and pinned, lips glossed, stocking-ed and heeled, glowing chestnut limbs (in my mind like a racehorse but in reality a Clydesdale) playing trophy wife (ACTING!) wondering which idiot in Koru is going to ignore me and risk getting sliced apart by my sarcastic revenge mechanisms TODAY. 🙂

Ms Ritchie is on holiday!